


Were not Revenge Sufficient for me

by Keesha



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-31
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 11:48:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 13,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7639039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keesha/pseuds/Keesha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fête des Mousquetaires competition entry (well and then some). "Beware! Revenge is an awkward passion to indulge in; they who employ it find it a double-edged weapon, which, in the recoil, frequently wounds the hand that wields it."</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"I'm begging you, let them go. Exact your revenge on me, if you must." His plea held an edge of desperation not normally found in his cool, cultured timbre.

Her cackling laughter was cold, harsh, and unforgiving. "You destroyed my life. Simply killing you is not enough. I want you to suffer, as you have cause me to suffer." Her maniacal laughter rang forth once more. "No. They shall die and you shall watch."

The rough bark on the tree to which he was tied, dug into the skin on his back. However, he didn't notice for the pain of his heart being ripped asunder was much greater. How had it come to this? She had always been an intelligent woman, ruthless in the pursuit of what she wanted, what she felt she deserved. Had he been naive not to realize that her ambition was both long and misdirected?

Her planning of this ambush had been meticulous and she managed to catch them completely flat-footed. That was quite an accomplishment, for they were four seasoned musketeers used to dealing with all sorts of nefarious scheming. However, she had solidly outwitted them. 

Last night, the sound of a gunshot had echoed over the chirping of the creatures of the night. It had caused the musketeers, instantly, to go on alert. Rising as one, they had moved stealthily into the dark woods, guns and swords drawn, trying to locate the source of the disturbance. While the four musketeers were out fruitlessly searching the forest, she had entered their camp, spiked their stew, then melted into the gloom to wait. It had been very calculated and she had been sure to leave no traces of her passage. 

The four of them, eventually, had returned to their campsite having found nothing amiss in their vicinity. They all knew sound carried strangely in the woods, especially at night, distorting both distance and reality. The shot could have come from miles away and been an innocent event, such as a huntsman shooting his family’s dinner.

Still, in deference to the unresolved event, they kept their weapons within arm’s reach after they had settled, once more, about their campfire. Porthos had ladled out four generous bowls of delicious rabbit stew, handing them around to each of his three friends. Aramis and d'Artagnan had dug into their dinner with gusto, as had Porthos who had prepared it. Athos, who was feeling unsettled by the gunshot that had no explanation, had merely toyed with his food, taking a few mouthfuls before setting the bowl aside and rising to his feet.

"I'm going to go check the perimeter again," he announced grimly, his gun drawn, primed, and ready. 

His brother's attempts to dissuade him fell on deaf ears as he marched off into the darkness to encircle their camp. d'Artagnan wolfed down the remainder of his stew, rose, and quickly went to follow after his mentor, not wanting him in the woods alone. However, Aramis reached out a hand to stay the young musketeer.

"Let him be, d'Artagnan. Athos has been moody all day, even by his standards. A few minutes of solitude will do him good."

"What is bothering him?" d'Artagnan asked as he stared out into the inky darkness as if the answer was written in the night stars.

The two older musketeers spared each other a concerned glance before shrugging and returning to their food.

"The day I understand Athos..." Aramis paused between mouthfuls of food lost, for a moment, to his own contemplations. "Well, I doubt I shall ever see that day. Personally, I don't think he understands why he does, what he does. Though, if we were to be honest with ourselves, which one of us really does?"

Without glancing up from his rabbit stew, Porthos grunted, "Food, fightin’ and friendship is all I need." 

d'Artagnan, whose world revolved around Constance, the love of his life, shifted his eyes from the woods to his companions around the glowing fire. "What about love?"

Aramis, always the romantic, had been quick to agree. "The pup has a point, Porthos. The love of a good women gives much meaning to life."

"Love?" Porthos snorted scornfully as he took a break from shoveling down his food for a moment of philosophy. "The way I see it, love nearly destroyed Athos, you, the Queen, and France. Even the pup didn't escape its clutches unscathed, though he seems to be doing alright now; well except bein' hen pecked by his new wife."

Aramis smirked knowingly at Porthos' last comment, while the Gascon was forced to look away as a faint blush crept up his neck. Constance was a formidable woman. And while the Gascon could have easily pointed out that all the musketeer in the garrison, including Aramis and Porthos, at one time or another, had been cowed by her trenchant tongue, he wisely decided to keep that observation to himself.

Reaching over, Aramis draped his arm, companionably, over Porthos' broad shoulders. "Love, my friend, is a two-edged sword. Much goodness in this world has been done in the name of love, as well as terrible evils. I prefer to think goodness is winning." 

Shrugging off his brother's arm, Porthos concentrated on his eating once more. "Ain't saying love is a bad thing, just too complicated. Food, fightin’, friendship. Much simpler."

At that point, Athos ghosted in from the darkness to the light of the campfire. Without a glance for his brothers, he gracefully settled on the ground, face shielded under the brim of his low-slung hat, the one he used as a defense mechanism against unwanted conversation. Though his half-finished bowl of stew was within easy reach, he made no motion to resume eating it. Meanwhile, Porthos and d'Artagnan were working on polishing off their third bowls, while Aramis had stopped after his second. 

"All quiet?" d'Artagnan queried of his mentor, ignoring the nonverbal to be left alone. The hat trick might work on strangers, but it never did on his brothers. 

"I saw... nothing," Athos responded, slowly, and without conviction. He appeared restive, shifting his gaze, periodically, from the flames to the forest

"But?" Aramis prompted knowing his brother well enough to sense something was troubling the man, which may or may not have to do with the darkened forest surrounding them.

The last month had been a time of vivid contrasts: d'Artagnan's wedding to Constance, the declaration of war with Spain; the promotion of Athos to Captain of the Musketeers, the promotion Treville to Minister of War; his own abrupt desertion to the church and quick return at his brother's wise guidance. 

But even more than that, something had happened between Athos and Milady, though none of them were really sure what had actually transpired. Athos, when asked, had announced, in his usual succinct manner, she had left for England. And that had been all he would divulge.

Porthos had informed Aramis that the swordsman had unexpectedly left the garrison, while they were prepping to retrieve him from his folly at the monastery, and had ridden out to meet her, for what reason no one actually knew. Their newly minted Captain had returned, alone, and pensive. Aramis suspected Athos himself had no idea what he would have done if he'd crossed paths her. And that, the marksman knew, was the crux of the age old issue between the estranged husband and wife. 

Maybe Athos’ moodiness was being triggered by all of those things and maybe none of them. Athos was Athos and at times still presented as an enigma. His brothers loved him, but even after all they had been through together, they still didn’t understand him at times.

Athos remained ruminating by the fire as the others cleaned up from dinner. When Porthos held out his barely touched bowl of stew, Athos had brusquely waved him off. With a shrug, Porthos wiped the bowl clean.

Later that night, there had been no discussion over who would take the first shift of the watch. As Porthos, Aramis, and d'Artagnan settled their weary bodies on the ground, shifting around to get comfortable, each doubted Athos would even concede to sleep tonight. However, neither of the three musketeers had time to give it much thought, as sleep had claimed them swiftly and deeply. 

Athos, much to his chagrin, found his own eyes impossibly heavy as they kept drifting shut. By the time he realized his drowsiness was being rendered by an unnatural cause, it had been too late. His eyes had closed and stayed that way.

She had slunk out of the shadows with a sense of satisfaction that she had bested what was supposed to be the premier musketeers in the regiment. It had been child's play and now she would wreak her revenge on Athos. She had waited a long time for this moment, to pay back the humiliation that had started ages ago. 

In spite of her feminine appearance, she was a very capable woman, having made her way in life, alone, for so long. One by one, she dragged each musketeer to a different tree trunk, where she propped up their malleable limbs and tied them in place with stout rope. By the time she was done, Aramis, Porthos and d'Artagnan where tightly secured onto the trunks of three trees in a row. 

She had scouted the area earlier in the evening, until she had found the perfect venue for her production. The fourth tree, the one to which she tied Athos, faced the other three trunks. She was going to be assured he saw every last detail of her revenge, felt every moment of agonizing pain, and had no choice but to watch, helplessly, as it unfolded. There would be no walking away from this one. 

"No, I won't forgive you," she whispered, vehemently, as she tied off the last knot.

When the scene was set to her satisfaction, she settled on the ground to wait for her captives to rouse, savoring the anticipatory sweet taste of revenge.


	2. Chapter 2

The first rays of dawn had barely peeked over the horizon when Athos' eyes began to flutter open. She rose from the ground and positioned her body so it was in his direct line of sight, wanting to be the first thing he saw upon regaining consciousness.

As Athos struggled to open his eyes, he tasted a flat, medicinal taste on his tongue. Drugged, his muddled mind managed to deduce. Fighting through the black haze, he forced his eyes to stay open and focus on the person standing in front of him.

"Catherine," he breathed with incredulity.

"Athos," she returned coldly, her blue eyes snapping with deep-set hatred.

His eyes swept the glade, noting his brothers were secured to trees, as was he. "You did this? Why?" Disbelief and a touch of hurt colored his question.

Her laugh was caustically bitter and ripe with distain. "After everything, you still don't get it." 

She turned her back on him to face the rising sun. "How is it that you have thoroughly ruined my life and yet you still can't see that!" 

Her body literally trembled with white-hot rage. "You humiliated me, destroyed my family, betrayed your own brother, and disgraced your heritage! And for what? That whore!" she spat as she spun back to face Athos. "And after all she has done, you still love her. What kind of man does that make you?"

Her words ripped at his conscience for he knew there was much truth in them. Many a desolate night he had asked himself the same question. What kind of man was he? 

Even to this day, he had to question his motivates, his feelings, towards Anne. He had planned to ride off to meet her, after d'Artagnan's wedding, only to be brought up short by Treville and duty. But he had given into his weakness later, and had ridden off to the crossroads, leaving his life, his duty, and his brothers dangling behind as if they were inconsequential. The very things that had saved him, he purposely abandoned in order to meet her. To this day, had she been there, he couldn't honestly say what he would have done. And that was the shame that ingrained itself on his soul. He might have thrown everything away, for a murderess and a whore. He bowed his head with self-disgust. Catherine was right. What kind of man was he?

Furiously, she stomped over, grabbed his dark, wavy hair and yanked his bowed head up until she could see into his eyes. "I'll tell you what kind of man you are. One that doesn't deserve to live."

He stared up at her, struggling to find the right tone between demanding and pleading. He wasn't sure what would set off this deranged woman, and if he didn't get it right, he would be condemning his brothers to their death for his follies. "Kill me, but let them go. They did nothing to you, mean nothing to you."

A cruel, feral smile deformed her features. "But that, dear Athos, is exactly the point. They," she let go of his head and gestured wildly towards the other three musketeers tied to the trees, "mean a great deal to you. To simply kill you isn't enough. I want you to suffer, as you have made me suffer. To watch, as everything you love is destroyed. My only regret is the whore is not here too, but this shall have to suffice."

Horror transformed Athos' face as his greatest fears shifted towards reality. "No. Catherine. They did nothing to you."

"Oh yes they did. They saved you, in Pinon. Better that they had left you to die. How many times have these brothers," her voice rose to a shriek, "saved your miserable life? These strangers whom you apparently love more than your own flesh and blood brother. My betrothed. How could you betray Thomas... and me?"

Athos let his eyes drop to the ground as he lowered his head once more. Softly he said, "You are right. I have betrayed Thomas with my actions." 

Slowly, he raised his pain-filled green eyes and sought out her crazed blue ones. "But what if Anne was telling the truth? That Thomas raped her and she was only trying to defended herself?" 

In his heart he knew it was the wrong thing to say, but at times, he still clung to that false hope, even though his rational mind knew it was just another one of Anne's lies.  
The smack across his face snapped his head back, slamming it against the tree's trunk. Blood trickled from the corner of his split lip. Black dots danced in front of his eyes for a few moments as he fought to remain conscious.

"My God, Athos. You still take her side. How can you be that blind? That stupid!"

Anger flashed in his eyes and defiance his tone. "She was my wife! I loved her!"

"She was a whore. Once a whore, always a whore!" 

Catherine’s eyes grew narrow and calculating as she leaned towards him. "That's what this is really about, isn't it Athos? You were jealous of your younger brother. Thomas, who was everyone's favorite. Your parents, everyone, always doted more on him than you. With my own ears I heard your father say, on more than one occasion, Thomas was more fit to be his heir than you."

Straightening, she took a step away, her hands clenched tight at her sides. "How could I have been so blind. You were glad she killed your brother, the one who upstaged."

"I loved Thomas. Protected him," Athos cried out with distress.

"Until she came along and once again your baby brother took away what was yours. No wonder you let her live. It was your way of winning over your brother, even in death."

"I punished her. I did my duty. I hung her."

"And yet, she still walks this earth, doesn't she? She may have tricked you the first time, but since then you have chosen to let her live. Her over your brother. Her over your family. Her over me!" 

The crescendo of her voice cumulated in a scream of anguish that shook the heavens. Worn out from her emotional storm, she bent and rested her hands on her thighs, as she struggled to regain her breath. 

A hush settled over the glade and Athos' plea, though barely whispered, was clearly audible. "You are right, Catherine. I deserve to die for all the things I did. For the hurt I inflicted on those around me. So kill me, but, please, spare their lives."

Slowly standing upright, the maniacal gleam in her eye told Athos all he needed to know; there was no reasoning with Catherine. Whatever sanity she once had was gone, leaving behind only the caustic shell of a vengeful woman.

Deliberately, she moved across the glen to where the three musketeers were slowly reviving. After their eyes opened and they realized they were tied up, they began to struggled against their captivity. However, they quickly ascertained they couldn’t break loose, so they ceased fighting their bonds and peered questioningly at Catherine and Athos.

"Catherine? What are you doing?" Aramis asked the estranged woman.

"Exacting my revenge," she coolly answered as she turned her back on them to stare directly at Athos. "Which one first?"

Desperation colored Athos' features and voice. "Catherine. Please. I'm begging you. Kill me, but let them go."

"Athos!" d'Artagnan exclaimed in horror.

"Your time for begging my forgiveness has long passed. Perhaps if things had been different at Pinon, maybe I could have looked past your indulgence of your whore of a wife. But no, once again you tossed me aside for a bunch of commoners who were deserving of nothing. You gave Pinon to them! What should have been mine! You are a disgrace to your heritage." 

"I care nothing for my heritage, I never have."

She strode up to him and resoundingly slapped him across the face once more. "But I do care! Deeply. And you denied me what was rightfully mine. And for that, they shall die." 

Turning once more, she walked over to the tied up musketeers and slowly moved down the line, examining them. "You. A noble of one of the oldest families of France. Befriending a common solider, a farm boy, and..." she halted in front of Porthos, "a gutter-born, half-breed mongrel."

Pulling one of Thomas' pistols from her belt, she aimed it at Porthos' head. "He'll be the first to die."

Before Athos could utter a word of protest, she pulled the trigger. At such close range it made a mess, splattering Porthos' innocent blood on her clothes and face. But Catherine didn't even seem to notice. At the sound of the gun firing, the musketeers had all screamed, then the grove of trees grew quiet; one voice had been silenced forever.

Fighting like a wild animal against the bonds tying him to the tree, Athos attempted to free himself in order to stop this mad woman. But the rope would not give way and simply cut bloody grooves in his skin. Catherine watched dispassionately at her brother-in-law's struggles and when he finally gave up his futile attempt to break free she calmly asked, "Who shall be next?"

"I implore you. Stop this madness, Catherine," Athos begged, his voice choked with emotion. "These men have done you no harm. This senseless killing makes you no better than her."

The moment the words left his lips, Athos knew he had made another fatal mistake and cost another one of his brothers their life. A cold fury settled on Catherine's features as she reloaded Thomas' pistol then discharged it into Aramis' heart. Athos watched with horror as the light dimmed, then extinguished in those handsome brown eyes. He let out a moan that was ripped from the depths of his tortured soul.

Detachedly, Catherine went about loading the pistol for the third time. Tears streamed down Athos' face as he pleaded with her to stop this outrage, but nothing he said moved her in the least. 

She deliberately walked over and stood in front of d'Artagnan staring down at the youngest musketeer. "He reminds me of Thomas. Is that what you fancy in him, Athos?" She turned and looked over at the former Comte. "Was he your redemption? A pathetic attempt to replace your noble brother with a base-born farmer?"

Placing her back to Athos again, but being sure she didn't block his view, she aimed her pistol at the boy, who was staring brazenly back at her. "He has spirit. Let's see how long it lasts him." 

Before she finished her sentence, the shot rang out, piercing d'Artagnan's midriff. Even as the boy groaned and slumped over as far as his ropes allowed, Catherine had indifferently moved away, seemingly unaffected by the atrocities she had committed.

Drawing near Athos, she halted and gave a quick glance over her shoulder at the Gascon before looking down to address the swordsman. "He'll take days to die. Days of misery while you sit here, helplessly, unable to ease his suffering. A small taste of what you did to me."

She stared at the man she had once loved. Now, when she looked at him, she only felt hatred fueled by a long ago broken mind. 

"Goodbye Athos. I don't envision our paths crossing again."

As silently as she came, she disappeared back into the forest. A ghost whose vengeance was complete. 

Through the tears choking his voice, Athos called out to d'Artagnan who valiantly raised his head to look over at his mentor. Unable to stop the words from leaving his lips, the boy whispered, "It hurts." 

"What have I done?" Athos sobbed.


	3. Chapter 3

"Athos! Athos! Wake up. You’re having a nightmare."

Fever-bright green eyes stared uncomprehendingly upwards, as the wild thrashing continued. Two more sets of hands joined the first pair on his overheated body, pinning his legs, arms, and shoulders to the mattress. 

"Stop struggling You’re going to rip my stitches!" The far-away voice tried to reason with the flailing man.

A small tendril of recognition, sluggishly, worked its way through his delirium, enough to get him to cease his struggles for a moment and instead focus his wavering attention on the shadowy shapes hovering over him.

Gradually, both his eyes and his brain comprehend the same picture and a hoarse exclamation escaped his parched throat. "Aramis. Porthos. d'Artagnan. You're alive!"

"Very much so, my fevered friend. It is you who has been courting death these last few days," Aramis replied in his bedside medical voice. "You scared the pup," he said dropping his voice into a confidential whisper.

Porthos loosened his hands on Athos' legs and settled his body comfortably on the bed next to his Captain. "Yeah. The boy's been spending more time sleeping at your side then his new wife's."

The Gascon gave both of the men a look of fond tolerance. "And it will take only one whiff of those two, to realize they haven't left your side either. We were worried, Athos."

The other two men nodded in concurrence. "It was a damn stupid thing you did the other night, Captain, chasing that assailant by yourself, especially down a dark alley."

"Yeah, if we did something that dumb, you'd severely lecture us and put us on stable duty for the rest of our lives. Can a Captain be put on stable duty?" d'Artagnan questioned as he glanced over at his other two brothers.

"Probably not by us," Aramis said with an exaggerated sigh before he brightened. "But Minister Treville could and I dare say we still have some sway with him. Perhaps, we shall bring this to his attention." 

The medic noticed Athos' eyelids drooping and he reached over and patted the ailing man on the arm. "We'll let you rest more. No more nightmares."

As he drifted off again, Athos clung to the hope that Aramis’ words would act as a talisman to keep the night terrors at bay.

After Athos’ eyes shut, Aramis made a quiet gesture to the rest of his brothers. They rose and the three men walked out of Athos' room, silently closing the door behind them.

"Is he alright to leave alone?" d'Artagnan questioned as they their way down the stairs towards the courtyard. 

The trio nodded to a few men and answered inquires as to the health of their Captain, as they headed for the mess. d'Artagnan had been telling the truth that none of them had left their brother's side for two days. They were exhausted, hungry, and in need of some personal hygiene.

Constance, who had seen them from across the garrison's courtyard, hurried over the dry, dusty surface and entered into the common room. The three had already settled at a table and where tearing into the food they had procured. She quickly made her way across the room.

"How is he?" she asked as she approached the table.

"His fever has broken. He regained consciousness for a few minutes and now is resting comfortably," Aramis informed her, taking a break from shoveling food in his mouth.

"Is he alright to leave alone?" she asked in a strange repetition of the same question that her husband had asked a few minutes ago. Her hand brushed d'Artagnan's overly long hair out of his eyes in an unconscious wifely gesture. "You need a haircut. And a bath," she added wrinkling her nose. "You all do."

"Only a month of marriage and they are already becoming peas in a pod," Aramis remarked jokingly, referring to the fact that the husband and wife seemed to be on the same wave length.

Constance simply rolled her eyes at the medic, something she did very well. "How about I go sit with Athos, while you all bathe and get some rest." The three musketeers appeared dubious, and she sought to reassure them. "Really, I have tended to our stubborn Captain before. He doesn't scare me."

She could still see the reluctance in their eyes and she didn't take offense, understanding how tight-knit the Inseparables were. When she married d'Artagnan, it had been with the full knowledge she would always share his heart with the other three men. 

"How about this," she suggested with a resigned sigh. "You eat, bathe, and then one stays with Athos while the rest of you sleep. Take turns. Like on watch. You need to sleep. Can't have you getting sick too. Not with the war coming."

After a bit of grumbling, they agreed to Constance's plan, not that they really had any other option. She was a formidable woman. It was decided that Aramis and d'Artagnan would sleep first, while Porthos kept vigil by the recovering Athos' bedside. But first, Porthos had to bathe per Constance's insistence. Hen pecked indeed.


	4. Chapter 4

As Athos' condition improved, he became annoyed with their constant surveillance and empathically shooed his brothers and Constance out of his room. He swore to them he'd only spend a few hours a day on the never-ending paperwork. The remainder of his time would be spent resting, a pledge that was quickly forgotten once he was left to his own devices. 

Part of Athos dreaded the idea of sleeping. He was afraid that his vivid nightmare would make an encore appearance. Even now, his heart beat involuntarily increased when the tendrils of that nightmare wound their way into his mind. The whole experience had left him edgy, just like his brother's had noted in his nightmare. At first, Aramis, d'Artagnan and Porthos had attributed their Captain's moodiness to his recovery and embarrassment for doing something so elementarily stupid as chasing an assailant down a dark alley, alone.

Athos had been coming back from the palace when he saw a man bludgeon, then steal a merchant's purse. Athos had given chase, but unfortunately had lost the culprit in the dark streets of Paris. As he was casting about, trying to pick up the thief's trail, he saw, out of the corner of his eye, a glimpse of red hair that looked disturbingly familiar. Without thought, he started moving in the direction of what appeared to be a ginger-haired feminine form. When the individual noted his presence, they had ducked down a dark and narrow alley and Athos had stupidly followed them. 

He had been attacked from behind, as he was scurrying after the elusive feminine figure and had no idea if the two had been in cahoots. A blow to the back of the head with stout piece of wood had driven him to his knees. The ensuing fight had been vicious, both men taking punishing blows from fists and daggers. The narrowness of the alley had rendered their swords useless, and both men had quickly discarded them, relying instead on their main gauche and bare knuckles.

In the end, the Captain of the Musketeers had won, but not before being brutalized and receiving a deep gash in his side. He had only remained conscious long enough to hand off his prisoner before collapsing in the dirt. He had been carried back to the garrison and Aramis had attended him. No one was ever the wiser that the person he was chasing and the person he fought were not one and the same. For reasons he didn't even understand himself, he neglected to enlighten them.  
As he recovered, his brothers had teased him, with a purpose, on his stupid actions. However, when it became apparent that this was going to be tolerated for some reason this time, they had left off. Usually, Athos was tolerant their ribbing, especially when it was well-deserved. However, this time, he had made it quite clear the subject was off-limits.

As he sat alone, at his desk, pretending to do paperwork, his mind wandered back to the night of his attack. Had it really been Catherine that had ducked down that dark alley? And if it had been her, had this attack been deliberate? Not just being in the wrong place at the wrong time? Was there any truth in his nightmare that Catherine was still in Paris seeking revenge against him? This is what was bothering Athos, and what he refused to share with his brothers.

As these disturbing thoughts flowed through his mind, a single knock came on his door, and then it opened, the person not waiting for permission to enter. Athos knew it was one of his brothers for even Minster Treville and Constance, mostly, waited for an affirmative signal before invading his chambers.

Aramis' head poked around the corner of the doorway, followed by the rest of him. "That doesn't look like resting," he chided as he strolled into the room. 

"I was napping. In my chair. You interrupted me."

Aramis moved over to stand pointedly next to Athos’ bed. "Maybe. But, most likely not." 

The marksman meaningfully flicked his eyes from Athos to the bed and back. The swordsman purposely ignored what was being requested, leaning back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest, and staring out the window on the far wall. 

Aramis, used to the headstrong ways of his friend, sighed, moved over to one of the chairs near the desk, and flopped into it. "Fine. I'll check your wounds later. What would you like to talk about while we wait out your stubbornness?"

He got no answer, as expected, so Aramis continued to prattle on, even though Athos didn't give any indication he was paying attention. "I know. Why don't you tell me what is going on in the guilt-ridden mind of yours?"

Silence ruled the room as Athos doggedly ignored Aramis' attempts to draw him into a conversation. Finally, Aramis' tone took on a hint of impatience. "Really, Captain. After all these years you don't think I know when you are hiding something from us, from me."

Slowly, Athos dragged his eyes away from the window to the mountain of correspondence threatening to tumble all over his desk. "I hate when you call me that."

The self-satisfied smug that appeared on Aramis' face said it all. "I know. But you'll get used to it, eventually."

Unfolding his arms, he waved them at the room, as if it were somehow to blame. "There were others Treville could have chosen."

"Treville chose wisely. Everyone knows and believes that. So stop this subterfuge and tell me what is really bothering you, for it is not only the fact that you are Captain of the Musketeers," Aramis deduced, wisely. He knew Athos and would give him no quarter.

Running a hand through his messy locks, Athos rose, moved to a chair near Aramis, sat, and stretched his legs out in front of him. He was sans his boots and his big toe poked out a hole in his left sock. Apparently, the former Comte had gotten no better over the years at darning his own hose.

"I need you, all of you, to be careful." Athos' voice held an edge of anxiety that the marksman noted.

"Aren't we always?" he replied, lightly, "Well, I suppose not, but why now more than before?" 

Aramis could practically hear Athos internally fighting with himself on whether to impart the real information. "Athos." Aramis' tone spoke love, nonjudgement, and years of understanding his wayward brother.

Dropping his head to his chest, and closing his eyes, Athos finally murmured, “Catherine. I thought I saw Catherine the night I was attacked. I was chasing her down that alley.”

Aramis straightened a little in his chair at this new information. So this is what Athos had been hiding from them. His stupidity of going down that dark alley alone now made more sense to the marksman. However, Aramis sensed there was something else Athos was still withholding. Damn the man. Would he never trust them? And why was Catherine’s presence so disturbing?

"Well, you don't exactly know where she went after your last meeting. It is not inconceivable that she is still in Paris." 

Aramis absentmindedly stroked his mustache trying to determine how to best draw the truth from Athos. Finally, he decided to be blunt and simply demand it. "But there is more you are not saying, Athos. Do you think she was deliberately trying to lure you into a trap? That she was seeking revenge?"

Aramis watched as an uncontrollable shudder ran through Athos' frame at the mention of the word revenge. His mining had hit some important fact. "Mon ami, what is it?"

Before Athos could reply, a knock came on the door and whatever information he might have been about to reveal was replaced with a gruff, "Come."

A lanky young cadet entered his Captain's chambers clutching a letter in his trembling hand. "This came. For you. From the palace."

Athos rose, pattered across the floor in his torn hose, took the missive, unfolded it, and scanned it. "Thank you, Paul. You can go."

With a nervous bob of his head, the cadet all but fled from the room, practically slamming the door behind him. 

"Do I scare them that much?" Athos idly questioned as he moved towards Aramis to hand him the letter.

"No more or less than Treville scared us," Aramis replied as he accepted the parchment and read it. A frown creased his forehand when he finished. "Why would Minister Treville wish to meet only with you, and outside of the city?"

Athos gave a small shrug as he moved across his quarters in search his boots. When he didn't spot them, he whirled to face his friend. "Where are my boots? Did you take them in the hopes of keeping me confined?"

"While we have employed that strategy in the past when you have been particularly ornery, this time they are simply in your closet. However," Aramis added as Athos changed his trajectory to head for the wardrobe, "you are still injured. Porthos, d'Artagnan, or I shall go and see what the Minister requires."

"It is addressed to me. It does not mention anyone else," Athos pointed out as he flung open the door to the closet and began to root in it.

"True, but Minister Treville doesn't know of your injuries. If he did, he wouldn't expect you to come."

Athos, with his missing footwear in hand, headed to the nearest chair to pull them on. "That's a lie. He is well aware of my mishap. You told him the minute I was hurt. I, too, know when you are lying, Aramis."

"Can't blame me for trying. May I at least check the wounds to see what state they are in, before you aggravate them by riding," Aramis pleaded, moving towards the musketeer who was now searching for his doublet. 

"There is no time, if I am to meet Treville where and when the letter states." 

Athos had found his black leather jacket and was struggling to slip it on. Aramis moved to his side and aided him, then handed him his weapon’s belt and rapier. 

"This feels wrong, Athos," Aramis stated with concern as he watched his best friend adjust his weaponry.

Athos stopped his preparations for a moment to place his hands on Aramis' shoulders. "I agree. This is peculiar."

Aramis made one last plea to dissuade the man. "Do you have to go?"

"Yes. But, I'll be on my guard for chicanery."

Athos dropped his hands to his sides and after giving his weapons' belt a last adjustment, he started to head for the door. 

"We all will be on our guard for chicanery," Aramis declared after the retreating man. "You're not going alone."

Stopping, Athos glanced over at his friend. The smile that graced his weary face was a genuine one that made Aramis feel privileged, for the ex-Comte didn't offer real smiles lightly. 

"I had no illusions that I would ever be going on my own. For if I were that stupid, to think my brothers would not be sneaking right behind me…, he shrugged, “well then Treville did make a poor choice in me as his replacement."

Moving to the door, he opened it and gestured for Aramis to proceed him. "Go tell the others. We leave...together...as soon as the horses are ready."


	5. Chapter 5

The real world ending turned out to be the polar opposite of his nightmare. It seemed the Catherine of flesh and blood was not as brilliant as the one of his fever-driven mind. Or they were just luckier.

The four musketeers had arrived, at the appointed time, at the deserted looking meeting place, outside the edge of Paris proper.   
Tethering their horses in the woods, they had carefully examined the outside of the abandoned building. It was a single story, not large, with a single entry point. The windows had been boarded over and it didn’t look as if anyone used it in some time. With guns drawn, the four brothers had entered the building.

As they suspected, it had been a trap. How she had obtained a barrel of explosive powder and gotten it inside they would never know, for dead women tell no tales. But she had, and she rigged it to explode once they were all trapped inside. 

Catherine must have lit the fuse upon seeing them approaching, then scooted outside without being detected. She had the barred the door behind them once they had unsuspectingly entered her web. The feeble light of the smoldering fuse had been hidden behind the keg of powder so the musketeers didn't see the dim glow upon entry. It had been the Gascon, scouting about, who had discovered the fuse and yelled a warning to brothers. 

The fuse had burned most of the way through and they were unable to extinguish the deadly flame. Their only recourse was to exit the building. When they went to execute that option, they discovered they couldn't escape through the only door in the place, for it had been secured from the outside. The windows were likewise barricaded. That left them only one chance for survival; retreat to the four corners of the room, which were structurally soundest, and ride out the blast. 

The concussion of the explosion knocked them senseless, which was a blessing as they didn't feel the dilapidated building raining down upon them. Catherine had waited at a safe distance, her gun trained on the wreckage, ready to shoot Athos, if he had the devil's luck to survive. When she had seen that three other men had accompanied him, even though the note she forged had said he was to come alone, she had felt a twinge of remorse. But that quickly passed when she saw the other three were only the low-life musketeers he had chosen to join when he renounced his heritage. 

Inside the ruined building, Porthos was the first to revive and he used his considerable strength to dig his way out from under the rubble covering him. His corner had held up fairly well to the blast and he had no sustained any major injuries. He pushed the last piece of debris aside then clambered to his feet, his skin and clothes covered in a fine white ash. 

He maneuvered around the outside perimeter of the building, which was fairly clear of rubble, as the structure had collapsed inwards. Skirting to the next corner, he began heaving the fractured wooden planks aside to reach the trapped musketeer below, which turned out to be d'Artagnan. The boy was just starting to stir when the street fighter flung the last board off of him. With care, for he didn't know if the lad was injured, Porthos gently assisted the Gascon to his feet. 

After a brief inspection and assurance from d'Artagnan he wasn't more than lightly battered and bruised, together the two moved onto the third corner, where there was already evidence that the musketeer underneath was alive and moving. Between the two of them, they quickly unearthed Aramis, who like the Gascon, would be covered with bruises come the morn, but otherwise, the marksman was intact. 

Catherine watched dispassionately as the three musketeers extracted themselves from her trap, not caring if they lived or died. She only had eyes for the fourth, still missing, musketeer. The one that had ruined her life. The one she wanted dead. 

Aramis, Porthos, and d'Artagnan moved onto the fourth and final corner of the collapsed building where they detected no sign of movement. Given that Athos had already been sporting half-healed injuries before the structure had fallen on him, they were concerned for his survival. Making quick work of the debris, they soon had a path cleared to where Athos laid still upon the ground. With a non-verbal consent, Aramis was the one that made his way to the side of the stationary man and after a fervent prayer to his God, he reached out two tentative fingers to Athos' neck. The questing digits found a steady pulse and the smile he beamed at his friends was all they needed to release the collective breath that they had been unconsciously holding. 

From her position, Catherine couldn't determine the fate of Athos, so she stayed hidden and ready, as she watched the other men extract him from the wreckage and carefully lay his body on the ground a few feet away from the rubble. It didn’t take long for her to get her answer. Based on the fact that the musketeers were working on Athos, not standing over his body mourning, Catherine had to believe that the damn man was still alive. 

She slapped her hand against the trunk of the tree behind which she was crouched, in frustration, as she debated what her next move should be. One thing was for certain, she was bound and determined to have this end here. Calming her frayed emotions, she checked Thomas' pistol to make sure it was ready to fire and then took a deep breath. She'd simply be patient, stay hidden, and wait for an opportunity to present itself. Knowing she couldn't overpower three men, she'd have to bide her time.

The medic ran his hands over Athos searching for injuries while d'Artagnan ran to the horses to get water and the medical supplies that Aramis kept in his saddle bags. When d'Artagnan returned with Aramis' pouch and a canteen of water, he handed them to the kneeling medic. Using a clean cloth, Aramis wet it and bathed Athos' dusty face and it achieved its intended purpose, reviving the unconscious man. 

The green eyes gingerly cracked open, though it took a few minutes for the dazed look in them to recede. As soon as it did, the swordsman began to struggle to rise, his eyes wildly scanning the area to ensure his brothers were all safe. Porthos moved behind him and propped him up, while Aramis assured the concerned man his brothers were all alive. 

Porthos could feel the tension seep out of Athos' body at Aramis' words of assurance. The wounded musketeer sank back against the strong man's chest in relief, and Porthos gladly supported his brother's weight. 

"Besides the bruised ribs, concussion, and sword wound in your side, all of which you had before you came here, things look pretty good," Aramis joshed as he sat back on his heels after examining Athos. 

d'Artagnan, who had been poking about the rubble, rejoined them. "No sign of who did this or why."

Porthos, with Aramis concurrence, helped Athos to his feet. The swordsman was still unsteady and the street fighter kept a close eye on him, ready to lend support, if required. 

Athos' let his eyes roam over the destroyed building, then the surrounding woods. "We have a lot of enemies." 

"Yes, well once again they have failed to kill us and so we live to fight another day," Aramis said breezily as he packed up his medical supplies.

"Against the Spanish," Porthos intoned gravely.

All four musketeers grew solemn as they digested Porthos' three simple, but deadly accurate words. War. They were soon off to war. They had survived many nameless battles together, but the battles of war were significantly different. None of them wanted to contemplate the fact that they might not survive. Or worse, that one might while a beloved brother died by their side on the battlefield. 

Finally, d'Artagnan broke the silence with the wisdom of the elders. "My Da always said don't borrow trouble."

"Then your father was a wise man. We shall do as we have always done. Fight for our Country, our King and our honor," Athos declared, stoutly.

"And trust God to watch over us," Aramis added, even though he knew Athos’ views on religion differed from his own. "God, and our new Captain, who is about to fall over." 

Aramis quickly extended his hand to steady Athos, who indeed had begun to wobble.  
"Porthos. d'Artagnan. Go get our horses, while I kept our illustrious leader on his feet."

Athos gave him an indignant eye roll and accompanying scowl, which might have been more impressive if his body hadn't betrayed him, forcing him to lean heavily on Aramis to remain upright.

As the other two men headed into the woods to where they had tethered their horses, Aramis wrapped his arms tightly around his weakened friend. "I have you, brother."

A bitter laugh sounded behind his back, along with the distinctive click of a cocked pistol. "Brother. You aren't his brother," a resentful feminine voice informed him.

Slowly turning around, Aramis positioned his body between Athos and the person with the gun. "Catherine," he said neutrally upon seeing her face. "Was this your doing?"

"It was," she replied haughtily. "It was meant to kill him for what he has done to me."

"Revenge isn't the way, Catherine," Aramis tried to reason.

The gun pointed at his chest shook a little. "It is all I have left. He and that whore wife took everything I ever had. Step aside. musketeer, or I will kill you first. I have a second gun, loaded and ready to draw. I am very good with a pistol, thanks to Thomas' tutelage and years of living on my own. Believe me when I say I can kill you, and draw fast enough to kill him too. Now step aside."

Aramis shook his head slowly as he felt the minute shift of Athos' body behind him. They were called the Inseparables for a very good reason, and that invisible bond was in play now. He knew what Athos was about to do; forced to do. He also knew what a burden it was going to place on Athos' already much battered soul. 

"Catherine, please," Aramis begged the delusional woman. "It doesn't have to be like this."

"Oh yes, it does," she replied in a very firm voice as she leveled the gun.


	6. Chapter 6

It was over in the blink of an eye, but the memory, for Athos, would live forever to haunt his soul. Aramis deflected Catherine's gun upward, while lunging to the side. The moment he had a clear view of her, Athos' main gauche flew straight and steady into Catherine's throat. Her shot went wildly astray as she fell to the earth, clutching her gurgling, bleeding neck. An instant later, Athos was on his knees next to her, cradling her dying body to his own.

"I'm sorry, Catherine," he moaned as tears began to trickle down his face. "I have done you grievous wrongs and perhaps I deserve to die. But I couldn't let you kill Aramis."

"You save your musketeer scum, over me," she croaked out as death’s touch clutched at her.

"He is my brother, as much as Thomas was," Athos whispered, his eyes sorrowfully fixed on the dying woman.

"God… damn… you… Athos." With that, the light in her pale blue eyes was extinguished and she drew her last breath. 

Athos clutched her dead body even closer to his chest, bending his dark head over her auburn one as he silently wept. Aramis waved off Porthos and d'Artagnan, who had coming sprinting from the woods at the sound of the gunshot, to give Athos time to grieve alone. The marksman moved over to where his two friends had stopped and silently, they watched their fourth mourn. Their hearts broke for their brother, whose life seemed frat with heartache and loss.

Eventually, Aramis moved back to where Athos knelt and placed a comforting hand on the lamenting man's shoulder. "It's time to go, Athos."

The bent head lifted and watery green eyes looked up at him. His voice, when he spoke, was that of a desolate man. "I killed her."

"Her need for revenge killed her," Aramis replied, neutrally. "Revenge is an awkward passion to indulge in; they who employ it find it a double-edged weapon, which, in the recoil, frequently wounds the hand that wields it."

Athos stared at the lifeless form he still held to his chest, then laid her gently on the ground. "She hated me so much."

Reaching down, Aramis drew Athos onto his feet, then wrapped him in a tight embrace. "I love you. Thank you for saving my life." 

Athos rested his aching head against the comfort of his brother's shoulder. "I have to bury her. With her family." Athos voice broke as he tried to speak.

"And we will help you. When you are recovered." Aramis motioned with his eyes for Porthos and d'Artagnan to join them with the horses. "Perhaps you would allow me the honor of riding tandem with you, back to the garrison. It will do wonders for my reputation to be seen as the new Captain's favorite."

But of course, Athos insisted he was well enough to ride on his own. Worried, Porthos kept Flip, and d'Artagnan maneuvered Zack so close to Athos and Roger, that both man and beast lashed out at them, one with words and one with hooves. However, it did not deter his brothers or their beasts from sticking to his side to ensure he didn't fall from his horse.

The trip back to the garrison was uneventful. A wagon was sent back to pick up Catherine's remains and take them to the undertaker who would prepare the body for burial. Aramis relegated Athos to his bed, where he was forced to remain, under the watchful eyes of his brothers and Constance, for three days to allow time for his body to heal. 

His mind, like his physical body, would always bear the scars of this tragedy. His brothers simply hoped he would learn to move past this tragic event, or lock it away as he had with so many of the other tragedies in his life. It wasn't healthy, but it was Athos' way of coping.

On the third day after Catherine's death, Athos rallied against his captors and insisted upon being allowed to be up and about. Other than sitting on him to keep him in bed, which Porthos had offered to do, or tying him to the bed, which d'Artagnan had volunteered to do, there wasn't any medically safe way to keep Athos bed bound. Even Constance's acerbic tongue and scowls failed to dissuade the partially healed musketeer from rising. That night, d'Artagnan was forced in his martial bed, to listen to a full blown lecture on the stubbornness of men, which when Athos was fully recovered, he'd be sure to thank him for. It had not been what the Gascon had in mind when he had gone to bed with his beautiful wife.

As soon as he was back on his feet, more or less, Athos began making preparations to take the deceased to Pinon where she could be properly buried. His arrangements, of course, did not include his brothers, but as soon as they got wind of his intentions, they modified his plans. d'Artagnan had earnestly explained that as a farm boy, he was most qualified to drive the wagon. Porthos insisted, as the strongest of the lot, only he could dig her a proper grave. Aramis had expounded he had to conduct a proper service for the deceased. Athos used everything in his arsenal to dissuade them from his famous glower to his Captain's card, but everything fell upon deaf ears. So two days later, the four of them rode out the garrison's gate for Pinon, with d'Artagnan driving the wagon with the body, while the other three rode alongside. 

Though they had left the garrison at first light, the wagon forced them to go slower than if they had been strictly on horseback. So when darkness descended and they had not yet reached Pinon, they decided to pull off the road and make camp. The bumps and bruises from the explosion they had luckily survived, had made the trip unpleasant for the lot of them, Athos particularly so since he was also recovering from being beaten and stabbed in the alley. The muffled groans and moans and the extraordinary amount of time it took them to set up their campsite was directly related to the discomfort caused by this road trip. 

Morning first light found them stiff and sore from sleeping on the ground and their bones and joints crackled as they stretched their limbs in preparation for the day. Aramis had tried to check Athos' wounds, especially the one on his side, for fear all this activity might have caused it to open. But he had been abruptly brushed off by their Captain, whose haggard countenance spoke of how little sleep he had achieved last night.

They got back on the road and two hours later arrived at the outskirts of the village. So as not to attract any untold attention, where they might be forced to explain their presence, Athos led them around the village to the cemetery where Catherine's family was entombed. Unlike the de la Fére crypt, which was under a portion of the house, this one was a more traditional cemetery-like arrangement with headstones. They located the empty space next to her deceased parents and set about digging her grave. Try as they might, his brothers were unable to deter Athos from helping dig the hole. Hours later, after the last scoop of dirt was patted down and Aramis' prayers had concluded, it was only sheer willpower that kept Athos on his feet. 

Because of the slowness of the wagon, there was no way they would make it back to the garrison that day. Even though the residents of Pinon would have welcome their ex-Comte with open arms, Athos had vowed never to return. He refused to accept his brothers’ suggestion that they lodge there for the night, even though they were all exhausted. 

Instead, Athos hauled his shaking body on to Roger and led them back towards Paris. After a several miles, he turned off the main road, onto a small, nearly undistinguishable track that was barely wide enough for the wagon. Eventually, it had led them to a nice clearing along the edge of a medium sized creek, a perfect spot to pitch camp.

Three of the hot, sweaty men eyed the delightful looking creek with pleasure, thinking how refreshing a soak in its clear running waters would feel. But duty first, and they set about making their campsite, and taking care of the horses before heading to the stream. A brooding, distracted Athos, his normal mode since he had killed Catherine, had trailed along behind them to the water, but had shown no inclination to strip and join his brothers in their soak.

Porthos solved the problem by wading from the river, in all his glory, and threaten to throw Athos in the river, if he didn't willingly join them. There was something rather amusing watching an animated nude man vigorously lecturing a sullen clothed man, though Aramis and d'Artagnan made sure their chuckles were muffled as they watched from the river. Whatever Porthos said, or more likely threatened, worked as Athos slowly removed his clothes and waded into the waters. 

d'Artagnan made his way to where Athos had dropped his clothing on the ground, gathered the garments, sans his doublet and took them to the stream to scrub. When the clothes were as clean as they were going to get, the Gascon laid them out the bank to dry along with everyone else's garments. Athos had acknowledged the act of kindness with a minute head nod, grateful the boy had done it for he was too exhausted to even contemplate the chore. 

Aramis had frowned when he saw the red, splotched bandage about Athos' midriff and had risen to intercept his brother. 

"You pulled my stitches," he accused as he neared the man. 

Since the evidence was there for all to see, Athos didn't deny the accusation. He merely shrugged and proceeded to move away. 

"Damn it, hold still, Athos. I need to examine your wound."

Athos stopped, stared at Aramis, then moved to a nearby rock in the stream and sat upon it. The water lapped over his legs and groin, but left the rest of his upper body exposed so Aramis could examine the gash. Athos hadn't chosen the rock for modesty sake, but simply because it was close, and if he hadn’t sat, he would have fallen. 

Aramis tut-tutted and scolded his patient as he unwound the bandages and saw that a few of his meticulously placed stitches had been ripped asunder. 

"You had to be your normal, pigheaded self and dig the grave, even though we three could have easily handled it," Aramis scolded the weary man sitting on the rock. 

d'Artagnan, finished with the washing, joined Porthos who was sitting on a rock ledge, letting the cool waters wash over his body as he watched Aramis tend to Athos. 

"You are always so damn stubborn. You do realize we go to war with Spain in less than a month. What if this gets infected! War, Athos. War! Treville has entrusted you with the regiment. How are you going to lead us successfully into battle, if you don't take care of yourself?" Aramis ranted at the injured man.

A haunted, melancholy voice replied. "It was my duty to bury her. I caused the misery in her life. By all rights, I should be the one in that grave."

Angered, Aramis cocked his fist and deliberately punched Athos in the side of the face, knocking him from the rock into the river. Athos, never one to back down from a fight, came up sputtering, getting to his feet surprisingly fast to launch a counterattack. Both men crashed back into the river with a huge splash, momentarily disappearing under the water.

"Christ," Porthos mumbled as he watched his two brothers bob to the surface and continue grappling in the creek. "They choose now to do this."

d'Artagnan, alarmed, sprang to his feet and was moving to intervene when he felt Porthos' large hand clamp down on his arm.

"Leave them be."

The Gascon rounded on Porthos, his face a mask of disbelief. "You're kidding right?"

"Aramis knows what he is doing. His reason returned after he threw the first punch. He is now trying to beat some sense into Athos."

Lowering his body back down onto the rock, d'Artagnan dubiously watched the scuffle. "I hope when you use the word beat you don't mean it literally."

"Nah, not really. It's a method of getting past our mule-headed leader's barriers. It seems extreme, but it works."

"You've seen them do this before?" the youngest of the quad inquired.

Porthos nodded. "Twice."

"And it somehow helped?"

"Aye, it did. What Aramis is doing is pushing Athos to the edge of physical and mental exhaustion to make those famous walls our leader has built around himself crumble. That gives us a chance to breech and try to make him see sense."

"So this is a siege?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

“And if that fails?"

Porthos considered that question carefully. The boy had never known Athos at his worst, when the former Comte had first joined the regiment. Porthos had seen how low the self-destructive Athos could sink. He and Athos had gone on a mission together, at Captain Treville’s insistence, before the swordsman was an official musketeer. It had turned into a nightmare neither man would ever be able to erase from their memory. 

During that mission to Dieppe, Porthos saw how the depths of despair could twist Athos' heart and soul; what the man would do for penance, a sense of misguided duty, and honor. It had terrified Porthos, who had seen a lot growing up in the Court of Miracles. He wasn't even sure Aramis, who had only witnessed the aftermath of the events of their trip to hell, even truly understood how dark Athos could go.

"It won't fail," Porthos answered, finally with desperation-edged conviction. "It can't."


	7. Chapter 7

Porthos was right. After Aramis lost his temper and threw the first punch, which had knocked Athos from his rock into the creek, his anger had rapidly dissipated. He knew, as a medic and a friend, he shouldn't have hit the man, but he had been furious. After all the years they had been together, all the things they had endured and survived, to hear Athos say he should be dead was incomprehensible. God damn the people who made Athos like this, destroying his self-esteem so thoroughly that no matter how many extraordinary things the swordsman accomplished, a niggle of self-loathing always gnawed at his soul. 

While Aramis had quickly come to his senses, Athos had not, and he was fighting blindly, his mind past knowing what it was directing his body to do. Athos wasn't fighting Aramis, and in fact when his reason returned, he would be horrified at his behavior. Athos was fighting the demons and self-doubt that tore at his soul. 

Aramis knew the promotion to Captain, the weight of responsibility thrust upon him, the near loss of his brothers, Catherine's death at hand, and the upcoming war with Spain was overwhelming the normally stoic man. Even d'Artagnan's wedding had been a concern for that would weigh on his mind when he sent the lad into battle. Not that other musketeers weren't married, but personally knowing Constance as well as Athos did, and having to face her if he caused the love-of-her-life's demise was a heavy burden to bear.

Aramis knew his own disappearance, however brief, to the monastery, had scarred his brother's soul, even though the swordsman had bid him ado, saying he understood the marksman's rationale. But Aramis suspected he hadn't, not really, but had put up the proper front for the good of the rest of the men, a trait that might kill him someday. 

Nothing was ever done for the good of Athos and if there was a choice to be made, even if it meant the swordsman would suffer, he would always choose his own suffering over that of anyone else's. It was what made him great and it was his Achilles heel. And it was this self-destruction that his brothers did their best to keep in check with their love. 

This fight had gone on long enough, and Aramis could see Athos' physical body shutting down on him, even if his mind hadn't figured that out yet. When Athos swung and completely missed him, Aramis stepped close and enveloped the failing man in an embrace that was both a hug and a prison. Slowly, he guided Athos, who finally had ceased trying to break free of his grip, to the shore where he helped lower the man onto the sun-dappled grass. Porthos, seeing the skirmish was over, swiftly moved to where the two men were sitting on the bank, and dropped to the earth to serve as a back rest for the exhausted Athos. 

d'Artagnan, who had trailed after the street fighter, was amazed to see the level of intimacy Athos was allowing his brothers. He had only seen Athos allow himself to be this detached from his normally ridged self-control once or twice before, and Porthos was right, it was only when the man was totally exhausted, both mentally and physically. The Gascon settled on the ground near his mentor, laying a companionable hand on the man's lower leg, just to let Athos know he was here for him too.

Aramis knelt on the grass next to Athos, leaned forward, cupped his face and placed a chaste kiss on his forehead. "Forgive me, brother. And forgive yourself."

Aramis sat back, watching the struggle which was occurring in the anguished green eyes of his best friend. 

''I wronged her," Athos whispered, his voice hoarse and haunted.

Surprisingly, it was Porthos who answered from behind him and his words weren't what his other brothers expected. "Aye. You probably did wrong her. On some level. Years ago. But playing the 'what-if' game serves no purpose, Athos. We have no clue how life would have turned out, even if we had made different choices in the past. I used to think what-if my mother hadn't died, what-if my father had claimed me, what-if I hadn't grown up in the Court of Miracles, what-if I had been all white or all black. But it wasn't serving any purpose, so I let go of what-if and lived the life I had been given."

That advice, coming from Porthos, was more profound than any philosopher. Porthos knew Athos had taken it to heart when he felt the man's hand reach over and gently squeeze his forearm. 

Aramis, instinctively knowing that the Catherine conversation had been put to rest, moved on to tackle the next issue, a long overdue conversation he needed to have with his brothers. Nervously, he slicked his wet hair back from his face, struggling where to begin.

"I owe all of you my life… my gratitude for what you did to Rochefort. I know revenge is wrong, but after what he did to Anne..."

"What he did to the Queen was wrong," Porthos interrupted. "What we did wasn't revenge. It was righting a wrong."

"The man was a traitor and a spy for the Spanish," d'Artagnan declared, backing up Porthos.

"True, but what he suffered, in prison warped him whether Rochefort realized it or not. And what about his love for the Queen? How was his love for her different than mine?" Aramis mournfully gazed at his brothers.

Athos raised his head from where it had drooped against Porthos' shoulder. "Because, for whatever reason, the Queen eagerly accepts your attention. Rochefort's she did not. Both are acts of treason, by law. But yours is consensual. Misguided to be sure, but sanctioned by both parties."

Aramis met Athos' gaze, knowing the man would never condone his actions with the Queen. But the same sense of duty and honor that wouldn't let Athos agree with the act, also forced the swordsman to protect the Queen, the dauphin and Aramis, his brother.

"I also regret the pain I caused each of you by leaving to go to the monastery. Your trust that I broke. With all that happened, after my vow to God, I could see no other path. But I was wrong to run away and hide and God, and you, my brothers, showed me that. I beg your forgiveness and humble myself at your feet for my actions."

"Too flowery as always, alter-boy," Porthos grumbled, looking at the nearly prostrate man. And though he joked, he had been deeply hurt, and he wanted Aramis to understand. “You broke not only my trust, but my heart. You didn't even try to talk to me, explain why you had to go. You simply announced God told you to go and walked away." 

Anger started coloring Porthos' tone and his body grew rigid behind Athos. "Damn it, Aramis. Your whole affair with the Queen was sheer stupidity from the outset. You can never keep your dick where it belongs. Maybe I get diddling the Cardinal's mistress and the lonely wives of neglecting husbands; the barmaids and the whores. But the Queen? That was a whole other level of stupidity. You put Athos' life, all our lives and reputations at risk for what?"

"Love," Aramis returned, honestly. "I love her."

"You could have love her from afar for the rest of your life. You didn't have to act upon it!"

"I know what I did was wrong, but you don't understand, you weren't there," Aramis lamented softly.

Porthos snorted, despairingly. "Aye, good thing 'cause I would have dropped you out the nearest window."

"I thought about handing him over to the enemy," Athos mumbled under his breath. "But at that point what was done, was done."

"And I can forgive you all that folly, for you are my brother and I love you. But it nearly killed me that you could so easily forsake us, after all we have been through." Porthos' chocolate brown eyes sought out the marksman's own. "I don't know what I would have done, if you hadn't come back from that monastery. To go off to war without you..." Porthos shook his head. "Maybe it is selfish of me, but I want you, I need you, at my side to get through what is coming."

It grew quiet as they thought about the upcoming war. What atrocities would they face? What vile acts would they be forced to commit? What if they didn't survive? What of the regiment? Their way of life? Constance? France herself!

"Captain, I mean Minister Treville knew what he was doing when he chose you, Athos, to replace him," d'Artagnan stated with conviction, feeling his reluctant leader needed to hear his words. 

Athos swept his eyes over all his brother's before speaking with total honesty. "I don't want this job." 

The swordsman waited expectantly for the look of disappointment from his brothers. The same look he had received from his parents, his brother, his wife, his relatives, and many others over the course of his life. And he was shocked, when his brothers didn't look at him that way. They looked at him with love and acceptance.

It was d'Artagnan that finally broke the silence. "Who would?" the Gascon stated frankly. "I wouldn't want the job."

"You have extraordinary talent, d'Artagnan. One day you will be Captain of the Musketeers," Athos declared with total sincerity. "You have in you to be the greatest of us all."

"Because I'm learning from you... all of you. I have great mentors. Captain Treville has taught me much as my Captain, and I know I will learn more under your keen leadership, Athos. And one day, if I am honored to be asked to lead the musketeers, I shall. I won't want to any more than you do, for it is a great and terrifying responsibility. But I have been taught my place, my duty, and my honor by the best, and I shall not let them down. No more than you will."

Aramis picked up the thread and ran with it. "I understand, Athos. Treville has not simply asked you to be Captain of the regiment under peace, but under war. Let me be blunt, for I know you would want nothing less. You will be sending men to their deaths, even us, your brothers. How could the prospect of making such weighty decisions not pray on your mind and eat at your soul?"

Around him, Aramis' other two brothers were nodding in solemn agreement while Athos simply stared off into the distance. But the marksman knew he was listening, by the telltale tightening in his jawline, which was not completely hidden by his beard.

"We are musketeers. We knew what we signed up for when he received our commissions and pledged our loyalty to King and Country. We will do what we are told. Fight and die as we must. And I would rather do that under a Captain I trust. One I know is looking out for the best interests of France, as well as his men. Able to make the tough decisions, even if that means sending his troops to certain death, when that is the right call. Athos, I...we...," he gestured to his brothers "...the regiment will follow your lead and storm the very gates of hell, if that is what you command because we trust you and know you will act honorably. That is why the Treville chose you."

"Yeah," Porthos cut in. "You're not taking this position for your own glory or vanity. You are taking it for us. To give us the best chance at coming out of this alive and victorious."

With great humility, Athos dropped his head to his chest, overcome by the trust these men, the Minister, and the regiment put in his ability to lead them. It wasn't that any of this could ever totally put his demons to rest, but he owed it to his men to fight past his own insecurities and do his best to serve them.

With overwhelming dignity that was born and bred into him, Athos made them a solemn vow. "I shall remember first and foremost to honor the trust being bestowed on me, by you, Treville, and the regiment. I will strive to make the appropriate decisions, even if painful, as required of me by my King and Country. I shall not seek death nor shall I shun it if that is what duty calls for. I make and expect that same pledge from you, my brothers. Don't seek death for the sake of one of your brothers. Being left alive, at the expense of your brother, is a death unto itself."

"You best be rememberin' that yourself, Captain. Your track record, to date, of makin' stupid decisions to save our skins ain't too great," Porthos reminded him.

A small quirk pulled at the corner of Athos' mouth as he dipped his head in acknowledgement.

"You won't go through this alone," Aramis swore as he reached out to clasp Athos' hand. "We will always be at your side, a safe haven in the storm, if you allow us."

Porthos added his hand to the clasp. "Don't push us away. Don't try to go it alone. Nothing you will ever do will stop us from supporting you."

To complete the pact, d'Artagnan added his hand to the clasp. "You taught me head over heart, and that is true in a battle. But when you are not in mortal combat, remember that the heart truly does have a role in life. Letting people see your heart is not such a terrible thing."

Once more they pledged their allegiance to each other. "All for one," they intoned together. "And one for all."

As usual, after such a heavy moment, Aramis forced them back onto the path of joviality. 

"Well, gentlemen," he began as they let go of each other's hands. "I think it is best if we get our new Captain out of the sun, before certain parts of his lily white anatomy gets burnt by the sun and he is unable to sit upon his horse. It is pretty difficult to look formidable riding into battle lying face first on a litter."

A blush stained a few fore-cheeks as the men realized this solemn conversation had been conducted, el natural. 

"Athos, I need to stitch that gash closed once more," Aramis declared as he rose from the ground. 

"You will put your trousers on? It would be rather... disconcerting... for you to conduct medical procedures in your present state," Athos deadpanned as only he could.

"What?" Aramis preened, striking an Adonis-like pose. "I think I cut a rather fine specimen. The ladies certainly seem to think so."

A semi-wet pair of braies smacked Aramis in the face, courtesy of Porthos. "I told you to keep your dick in your pants, now didn't I?"

"Point taken," Aramis conceded as he slipped into his drawers.

d'Artagnan walked over to where Athos sat, offered him a hand to pull him to his feet, and then politely handed him his damp braies. Athos, with a steadying hand from the lad, worked them on. The Gascon had already donned his drawers before he brought Athos his, leaving only Porthos in his birthday suit. Three sets of eyes lit upon the naked man who had stretched out in the grass.

"What?" he asked as he felt their eyes upon his person. "I don't have to worry about burning like you boys. I think I'll take a nice snooze in this delightful sunshine." To emphasize his point, he rolled over onto his stomach, cradling his head in his arms, before closing his eyes.

Aramis simply shook his head as he dragged Athos off to stitch his wound. "You know, Captain," he started after he had begun redoing his handy work. "What happened to the rule on how hiding one’s injuries is dangerous to us all."

"I wasn't hiding anything." Athos grimaced as Aramis stuck him deliberately and a bit too vigorously. "You knew about this wound," he grunted painfully through clenched teeth.

"Sorry," Aramis said by rote even though both men knew he wasn’t. "But you weren't taking care of it now were you. Where does that fall into your rule?"

"Perhaps we need an addendum," the swordsman drawled before hissing once more from the prick of the needle's relentless point.

"Perhaps, Captain, we do. Something along the lines of I will alert my brothers immediately upon being injured, not when I get around to it. And once my wound is stitched, I will do everything in my power not to mangle myself further until I am fully recovered. I shall respect the fine needlework my medic has so painstakingly etched on my body and treat it with dignity and respect."

"Don't you think that is overly long?" Athos suggested drolly.

Aramis' retort was swift and emphasized with another needle prick. "Work with it, Captain." 

"You know I hate when you call me Captain."

Aramis glanced up from his stitching and grinned at Athos. "Yes, I do know."

"So why do you it?" Athos asked, his tone indicating his puzzlement.

"A form of passive aggressiveness, I suppose." Aramis stabbed the needle through Athos' skin once more. "I can't always punch you to indicate my annoyance with your behavior."

"Let me see if I understand. You call me Captain, when you are annoyed, instead of punching me."

"Something like that. But also when I want to capture your attention, because as soon as I say Captain, it annoys you and you focus your attention on me."

“Interesting,” Athos said without much conviction.

The two men dropped into silence as Aramis finished closing the wound and tying it off with a neat and tidy knot. Next he flushed it with alcohol, after allowing Athos a few sips from the bottle, for which the swordsman was grateful as his newly stitched wound was quite painful. Finally, the musketeer-medic rewrapped Athos' torso in a clean bandage.

"There. Done. Now heed my advice. Don't aggravate it until it heals. We go to war in less than a month. You need to be healthy."

Athos nodded to show he understood the message. Rising, Aramis gathered his supplies and went to stow them in his saddlebags. Glancing over his shoulder towards where Porthos was still stretched out in the sun, Aramis began to laugh.

"Oh Captain," the marksman called out in a sing-song voice.

"What could I possibly being doing at the moment that is annoying you?" Athos asked with exasperation. He was simply sitting on a log.

"Not annoyed, but I do need your attention. Unless, that is, you want one less musketeer to take to the front.”

Athos quirked an eyebrow as he followed Aramis’ gaze. 

“I suggest you stop the whelp before he dumps that anthill on Porthos. I fear it won't end well."

Cursing under his breath, Athos rose and barked in his best Captain’s voice, "d'Artagnan!"

The guilty Gascon looked over at him, grinned and shrugged as he continued to advance on the unsuspecting Porthos.

"Why the hell do I want this job?" Athos growled. Apparently, he had said it louder than he intended too because three voices answered his question.

"Because you love us!"

THE END


End file.
